


Pocky Day 2: Post-Timeskip Fluffy Boogaloo

by Nintendraw



Series: Pocky Days [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff, The Pocky Game, pocky day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 06:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21471457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nintendraw/pseuds/Nintendraw
Summary: He can't bear to see her lonely and despondent, and so one evening he approaches her with pocky sticks in hand. They're older and wiser now, five years removed from their more innocent days at the monastery, but Caspar still remembers. He approaches softly from behind, arrmored footfalls distinctive in the quietude, and settles next to her on the log. He waits until she turns towards him to pluck a stick from the box and offer it to her, expression concerned but inviting. No words need to be said.(In which Caspar is much more forward and not nearly as dense as their supports imply. Total fluff.)
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Hilda Valentine Goneril, Caspar von Bergliez/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Series: Pocky Days [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549489
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Pocky Day 2: Post-Timeskip Fluffy Boogaloo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pocky Day/a meme that was going around on my Tumblr RP group on November 11. Copied from my and my friend's Hilda blogs. I wrote Caspar's parts. Can you tell which section I had the most fun with? XD
> 
> There is a Part 1 to this; I'm just waiting to see how Hilda responds to where I left off. It'll probably appear here once I'm done. (Or if you're impatient, you could probably search my writing and find it again...)

He can't bear to see her lonely and despondent, and so one evening he approaches her with biscuits in hand. They're older and wiser now, five years removed from their more innocent days at the monastery, but Caspar still remembers. He approaches softly from behind, armored footfalls distinctive in the quietude, and settles next to her on the log. He waits until she turns towards him to pluck a stick from the box and offer it to her, expression concerned but inviting. No words need to be said.

Fighting in a war was never, _ever_ something that Hilda would have pictured for herself. After graduating, she was supposed to marry some nobleman and live a cushy, stress-free life of leisure and luxury. And then she met Claude von Riegan with his beautiful brain and his grand dreams for Fódlan’s future and she knew she would do whatever it took to help him achieve his goals, even if it meant putting forth all of her effort as well as her life on the line.

The fighting had taken its toll on everyone and Hilda is no exception. She despises the fighting and the killing and each night it seems harder and harder to peacefully drift off to sleep. Tonight was one such night, and Hilda finds herself sitting alone under the stars trying to think of anything other than the pained faces and screams of terror right before the swing of her axe.

Footsteps approach. Caspar’s familiar and welcome form joins her, and Hilda is able to pull her mind back to the present. He sits close to her and she smiles when she notices the box of pocky. Instantly she’s transported back to the time they _almost_ kissed—a scene that’s replayed in her mind every time she’s seen a box of those cookies since. He’d been so nervous back then and she’d been so much more disappointed than she thought she’d be when she won the game.

She looks at the pocky stick in his hand now before taking it and holding it up at face level. “What’s this about?” she says with a soft giggle. “You’re not looking for a rematch, are you?” She’s teasing—certainly there’s no way that would be the case.

\---

He’d gone into the war expecting nothing would change about his life other than an increased chunk of his days filled with fighting—which should have suited Caspar, second son and inheritor of nothing from House Bergliez, just fine—but instead he’d found himself caught up in a mess of politics and bloodshed and fighting against former friends—for their lives and not their training—that even had him questioning his own steadfast sense of justice maintained from his pre-academy days. Distancing himself from the names of the fallen helped him cope with the pile of bodies he was accruing alongside everyone else, but sometimes at night his traitor brain still replayed his victims’ last moments, or what-if scenarios had he been just a little bit stronger or weaker. Why couldn’t everyone just hold hands and get along, he wondered? That very sentiment had been what had convinced him to return to Claude’s side when all hell broke loose, as the one most likely to settle things with a minimum of war and tragedy. But five years had passed, and little, it seemed, had changed since those early days. Perhaps his hopes had been nothing more than a foolish boy’s naïve fantasy, as doomed to die as a fever dream in morning.

And Hilda was taking all of this no easier than he. Caspar had seen the way she tried to hide her tears and despondency even if the others did not. They were few disciples of the axe, thrown together in combat more often than not. Long experience told him something within her was on the verge of becoming unhinged; thus he’d bided his time in vigilant silence, watching for the moment to make his move.

He knew she’d remember the moment he revealed the nostalgic box; its vivid red, so at odds with the dullness and gloom that seemed to cling to them like a shadow these days, was a potent reminder of simpler days. He’d made sure to keep a stash of them in his room up until graduation day; but ever since the day Hilda sprung that game on him and they’d basically kissed, he’d never been able to eat another box without thinking of her and what might have been.

So that was why now had seemed the perfect time to remind her of all that, when she was feeling most low.

His lips twitched upwards in a ghost of a smile when she took the proffered pocky stick from his fingers and held it up. “What’s this about?” she asked, wagging the tip in front of his face in an echo of their first time five years prior. “You’re not looking for a rematch, are you?”

He doesn’t miss the slight laughter that reenters her voice when she speaks; the tease he hears in her words hearten him. So the war hasn’t completely ruined her; and she still remembers. Caspar laughs in turn, voice deeper now but still layered with that rural twang. “Five years is an awful long time to hold a grudge,” he responds. “Don’t you think so?”

His arm snakes around the small of her back as he poses the question; she responds by leaning into his embrace, head resting on his shoulder as they stare into the fire and the stars. He munches a stick idly for a moment; he’s sure the move confuses Hilda, but the taste of it helps him remember the strawberry and gardenia, the carefree days in the monastery. (How well it’d sheltered him, he realized. Back then he would never have imagined adulthood would turn out like this.)

And he wants to remember—all of it—before he helps Hilda do the same.

Before too long (but not too short) the biscuit is gone. (He’s long since learned the value of a quiet drawn-out moment.) As he leans away from her, Caspar pulls out another and turns towards her, holding it between them. “I just thought you could use a little pick-me-up,” he tells her. (Finally he answers her question directly.) “The war’s been rough on both of us, but I’ve still got a few of these lying about. … For old time’s sake?”

And then, expression knowing, he plants the bare end of the pocky between his teeth and leans in slightly, patiently waiting for her advance.

\---

Caspar’s presence is always welcome at her side, both in the battle and out, and this time is no different. His arm finds its way to her waist and she happily leans into his embrace. It’s a rare peaceful moment and her eyes close as she focuses on the comforting rise and fall of his chest. Since the war began, she’s learned to savor the happier times, even something as simple as an embrace between two friends. 

Then he turns toward her, pocky sticking out from his lips, and she can’t help but giggle at how silly he looks. Is this what she had looked like five years ago?

“For old time’s sake,” she agrees and leans in.

She counts them, four bites, before stopping just before reaching his lips and suddenly it’s five years ago and she’s 18 again and Fodlan is at peace. Hilda’s tempted to finish the game right then, to really feel what his lips are like against hers, but she remains patient. She let Caspar take the lead back then and she was going to let him do it again.

She looks up at him, curious, and not sure at all what to expect from him this time.

\---

He is gratified to see her take the free end of the pocky stick in her lips. Four bites, and his vision is again filled with rosy eyes and sweet-pea hair, his nose with that mix of strawberry and gardenia that is so iconically Hilda. Five years had not been long enough to purge himself of the memory of having her so close to him; in fact, he would be lying to himself if he even said he _wanted _to when she was part of the reason he had decided to join the Alliance at all. (The other half of it had been discord with the mounting situation in the Empire.) But mere politics could not describe everything he felt for her, delicate and strong, whimsical and forthright, _free_ like no one he’d ever known back home. Dare he say after five years of fighting at her side that there was no one else he could imagine spending the rest of his life with?

And here she is again, face mere inches from his own in a near-perfect reprisal of their first time so long ago, nose-tip ghosting against his, sweet-pea curtains framing rosy eyes demanding nothing of him but a simple decision, a resolution to the curiosity he had so ineptly answered five years past. Time’s steady march had not made him any more invulnerable to the creep of red from his ears down towards his cheeks; but this time Caspar is surer of himself; stronger, gentler, more aware. If Hilda should come to consider him a rock to cling to in a war-torn world as inconstant as the winds, he would be happy. After all, she is the same to him. Her sunny quirky presence emboldens him, gives him the strength to carry on when everything else should see fit to demand of him otherwise.

The world is at war. The odds are against them. But perhaps in this single stolen nostalgic moment, he can show her just how he feels.

Slowly, gently, robin eyes never once leaving hers, Caspar tugs on the pocky stick and draws her closer. A mere nibble is all that separates his lips from hers. In one move, he closes the distance. Hyacinth skin presses against his own; he is pleased to find that it is every bit as soft as it is in the memory he has tended to like a well-aged wine. The pocky stick dissolves in their mouths until there is nothing between them but summer and gardenia. Lashes flutter closed. He doesn’t know who makes the first move after that, only that their bodies are pressed against each other and that they are embracing, as tightly as drowning men to a buoy, or two soldiers caught adrift by war. It was his intent to go slow—she hasn’t grown these past five years, and while he knows he will not break her, she will never break, the truth remains that he is no longer the same runty kid he was back then—but at some point his lips begin prizing more urgently upon hers, nudging them open that he can explore every inch of that which he’d gotten the barest hint of five years prior. By midnight tomorrow, one or both of them might not be here again, and he wants to engrave every inch of her into memory, both to guard against the uncertain future and to drink deeper of that which has buoyed him for all this time.

A soft moan punctures the night; he does not know whose it is until Hilda presses tighter into him, her fingers climbing up his unarmored back, reaching for his hair. _So she feels the same._ His own fingers tangle in her sweet-pea tresses in response; they pull away for a breath and then resume. Again the hyacinth; again the gardenia. All the while, the fire crackles softly in the background, its light framing and enfolding them in warmth, the sole witness to their wordless confession. (And the pocky box is forgotten again, as it probably will be for the remainder of the evening. For there is no longer a need for pretense. All is laid bare; all that exists in this moment is them.)

Her lips slacken on his; and gently Caspar pulls away. There is a flush on her cheeks, and the knowledge that _he _put it there fills him with a moment’s possessive pride, even if he is just as certain that he is no better. “Did I answer the question you’ve had since that day five years ago?” he asks. 

She doesn’t respond for a moment. Caspar ducks his head, suddenly shy. “You know, Hilda... Ever since that day when you sprung that pocky game on me, I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind,” he confesses. His words come out a little rushed, but he can’t help it; he almost feels as if missing this moment would mean missing it forever. “Couldn’t get _you _out of my mind either. I know I messed it up last time, but you were so happy for a while when we _did _play it, and I noticed you smiled back at the academy whenever you saw that box again. That’s why I thought if I gave it to you again, it’d cheer you up. You’ve been sad these past few days, and... I hate to see you that way.”

There; he’s done it. He’s bared his secret thoughts to her. He dearly hopes she reciprocates. The only sign he’s gotten of that is the way she responded to him when he finally kissed her and made up for what he failed to do in the past. But even if she refused him, Caspar isn’t sure if he could find it in himself to leave her wholly alone. Even if they should just remain friends, he wants to continue protecting her as long as he is able, certain in the knowledge that she would do the same.

_I love you. I care for you. And in this moment, I hope that I’ve made you smile._

\---

His lips are on hers, but they’re no longer just playing a game—though Hilda has a feeling that this time around, it was never about the pocky. He’s kissing her, _really_ kissing her, and she can’t and won’t pull away. Caspar’s arms wrap around her, pulling her in close, protecting her from the feelings of loss, despair, and regret that she finds worming their way into her brain more often than not anymore. None of that matters right now, not in this moment. She and Caspar are the only two people on the planet and anything else is just an afterthought.

His lips part and so do hers and her hands find their way to his face, urging him to deepen the kiss still. She moans and leans in even closer, desperate to feel as near to him as she possibly can, reveling in the warm radiating from his embrace. The kiss is broken only for a moment to breathe, then blue eyes meet pink followed by two pairs of lips. She’s in pure bliss once more until he pulls away again.

Caspar’s confession that he’d been unable to keep her out of his mind hits Hilda like a tidal wave and almost knocks her off her feet. This wasn’t just a wartime kiss between two soldiers lonely and afraid that they might not make it to the end of the fighting. This was something real. The way he held her, touched her, kissed her was _real_. Hilda had kissed plenty of guys before but none of it had ever meant more than just a fun little distraction. That’s what started this five years ago. It was just supposed to be a silly game to fluster Caspar. And yet…

“Caspar…” Hilda’s at a complete loss for words as she takes hold of his hands. They’re warm and big compared to her own and her thumbs rub softly against them. “Thank you,” is all she can think of to say. It’s stupid and could mean anything, but she leans in again and lets her nose rub against his.

\---

She said it. He isn’t alone in this world of love amidst loss; she’d admitted as much out loud. Caspar feels as if he’s soaring, as if his heart might burst out of his chest; it had totally been the right move to come find her tonight with biscuits in hand. _“Thank you.”_ With those two little words, she’d validated all his secret dreams, all the pining words he couldn’t express until this moment. For the first time in a long time, he felt complete. When last had he felt this way?

(Perhaps he never had, truly—not at all.)

Those two words were not so overt as an “I love you,” but the weight they carried was nonetheless the same. Underscored by the way she nuzzled her nose into the crook of his neck, there was nothing else it could be. (And if he was being frank, he himself had not said as much either, but again, the weight of his words was also the same.) A blissful smile creeps across his face—perhaps stupid, even, but such was his wont in life, now as ever—and he slides one hand around to her backside once more, squeezing her tight to him once more, breathing in the scent of gardenia he first came to know and love five years past. “I’m glad, Hilda,” he tells her, voice barely above a murmur as she strokes the back of her head. “I know I can be a bit of a goof and a bit dense sometimes, but I promise, I’ll protect you so that we can both make it out on the other side of this war. You’re my everything, Hilda.

“Promise you’ll never leave me, and I swear to do the same…”


End file.
